The heart of the night is beating in the streets. Marx-Strasse rises up to the church, brightly lit, and behind the church goes on in the dark, climbing steeply to the clouds. Now headlights glide down through the clouds to the world below, where Anna is fighting for breath, and on window sills cacti stand nearby. The wind hums to the revs of the car engine, drumming out a hollow beat, carrying an aroma on it, the sweet fragrance of grapes.
Anna presses into the gateway, and turns off her headlight as if in flight.
The beat: reggae. The music and the car engine echo between the cloudy sky and the savings bank branch. Frau Rombach hasn’t brought her flower containers in for the night; the cats will piss in them, and she’ll have to go round with the room spray in the morning, or her customers will be in a worse mood than ever.
Leaves sweep over the porous asphalt, and a metallic blue van makes its entrance at walking pace, bodywork clattering tinnily in the bass. Anna, caught in the headlights, freezes guiltily. Pebbles crunch under the tires and the van stops.
Some thinking goes on, both inside and outside the van.
Anna can’t manage to stand upright. The raindrops shimmer in the light, the calm beat makes the night no calmer. The van windows are tinted, the tires muddy, there are splashes of mud on the sides of the van.
The number plate is UM, for the Uckermark. Well, that’s something.
The engine stops, the bass goes on playing. The windshield wipers click softly. Nothing has been going on in the van for much too long now. Only when the song is over do the doors swing open. A new beat, a wave of German hip-hop, washes over Anna and—
— TWO MEN GET OUT, OR RATHER BOYS, STILL growing into their limbs, but at night on the road, for all Anna knew, they could be an army of two. The taller: intriguingly good-looking. The hair of the smaller is nicely blow-dried, his glance stern, his eyebrows plucked, his skin treated with a male grooming product. Fur coats over loose trousers, bright red football shirts, on one a lightning flash and the words
FC ENERGIE
for Energie Kottbus Football Club, and on the other, equally unsubtle, a skull and crossbones and under it, in large letters:
STIL
As for Anna, she is white as a sheet. Inquisitive, helpful, low-life — they could be anything in the night she has conjured up: angels’ wings folded, hooves in their shoes? She can’t tell, she doesn’t feel well, or not well enough to judge. She wants to face her illness, not strangers. Only her voice fails her, only a hoarse croak comes out. The tall, good-looking one smiles, his speech sings, soft like a man with plenty of time.
“Mademoiselle,” he asks, “are you okay? We saw you in trouble from far away.”
Anna whispers, “It’s asthma.”
“Ah, civilization making a fuss.”
“It’s nothing at all to do with us,” the smaller youth with the glum look says.
“Like a lift to A&E?”
“That’s going too far, Q, if you ask me.”
“But what if it’s an emergency?”
Anna looks from one to the other of them.
“Hey, do you always talk in rhyme?”
In chorus: “Us? Where would we get the time?”
“You—” Anna’s voice gives way, she slumps to the ground. Undaunted, the two hurry over, help her up and get her into their van.
“Mademoiselle, we’ll take you home.”
“You’re not fit to be out on your own.”
Anna nods; she can hardly speak. “Geher’s Farm. Do you know it?”
The two exchange meaning glances that Anna can’t interpret. Anna looks at the van door. It’s not locked: good.
“We don’t know our way well in this town.”
“The satnav went and let us down.”
“Great.” Anna tries breathing deeply. “Down Thälmann-Strasse here, along the main road, I’ll tell you when.”
The one called Q turns the van.
“Where — where have you come from?” Anna wants to keep the conversation going, however difficult her voice finds it.
“From here, from there, from up and down. Nothing to interest you tonight.”
“Henry, you’re not being very polite.” And turning to Anna, “Take no notice of this clown. On such a night things get him down. Usually he’s so good with words he can make counts nervous and countesses amorous, or do I mean it the other way? Never mind, be that as it may, it isn’t easy with names of places, they can’t be trusted in such cases.”
“You. . okay. .” Anna’s eyes are streaming, her breath is wheezing the whole time. The van speeds up on its way out of the village—
— and at the same time Herr Schramm is stepping on the gas of his Golf. When he is doing 130 k.p.h. he switches off the headlights.
HERR SCHRAMM IS DIVORCED, NO CHILDREN. HERR Schramm is not afraid of death, you don’t know what’s going on when you die. In summer he hadn’t been thinking of death, in summer Herr Schramm still wanted another go at life, maybe he’d fall in love.
Frau Mahlke, manageress of the dating agency, set off on a little tour of Brandenburg to visit six men in search of a partner at home, taking stock of them on their home ground. Herr Schramm’s appointment was the last. She arrived in Fürstenfelde at five, rather tired and in a worse temper than when she left the late-summer atmosphere of Pankow behind to drive out into the country.
Herr Schramm was waiting outside the Homeland House with a mug of coffee. His first words were, “Schramm, pleased to meet you,” followed by a calm, “Watch out, wasps,” as one of them tried to settle on Elisabeth Mahlke’s well-upholstered shoulder. Herr Schramm is a punctilious man.
Frau Mahlke has thrown a silk scarf, golden-yellow and pale lilac, over her slightly pudgy figure and is wearing a pair of trousers that are rather tight for her age of fifty-nine. Herr Schramm looked at the trousers in a way that clearly showed he wasn’t sure whether such tight trousers were right for this occasion, but never mind.
Frau Mahlke found herself taken out for a trip on the Deep Lake in the oldest rowing boat, which creaks romantically. She was not prepared for that. The cool breeze blowing over the lake did her hot face good, she took off her shoes and dunked her feet in the water. The ferryman owed Schramm a favor, so he rowed them out to the islands. “Come along, Elisabeth, I’ll show you the lakes and the deserted farms”—“Why don’t we just stay at your place to talk, Herr Schramm?”
Herr Schramm wanted to show the lady from the dating agency both the good sides and the not-so-good sides of Fürstenfelde. To be honest, he wanted to do the same with himself. The ferryman had recommended it. Because if you promise a woman a lie, you’ll be bound to disappoint her sometime. “You’re not such a splendid fellow, Schramm,” the ferryman had said, “but telling lies would make you really terrible.”
Frau Mahlke asked Herr Schramm whether midges were a problem in the area, and Herr Schramm said, “Yes, of course.” And he added, “On average a hundred thousand midges’ eggs are laid per square meter of the marshy land.” And, “It would be even worse without the bats.” And, “All the same, I’ve always wanted to go to Finland. They have lakes there that I’ve never seen. For instance, it would be good if you find me someone who’d like to go to Finland with me. I’ve got a bit of money put aside.”
“Well, let’s begin, shall we, Herr Schramm?” asked Frau Mahlke, picking up her questionnaire.
The questions about the lady’s appearance were soon dealt with: he liked brunettes. Yes, shorter than him, but not too short. No, he had no objection in principle to makeup. Yes, she should be well groomed but not to excess, you could see plenty of that on TV.